


we are all going forward (none of us are going back)

by civilbucks



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholicism, Dehumanization, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Torture, Vomiting, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27015928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilbucks/pseuds/civilbucks
Summary: The Asset feels its body plummeting to the ground, its ears picking up on someone screaming over the roaring of the wind. It soon realizes that the sound is coming from its own lips, tearing up its throat and leaving it raw, and its eyes are screwed shut to keep out the frigid air, burning as tears leak from the corners.In dreams, there’s always that moment before the bad thing happens – right before the host that one’s subconscious associates being itself suffers from the pain of whatever this nightmare entails – where they wake up.This isn’t a dream, though, and The Asset reaches the ground.Or: The one where The Asset decides to stay.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov & Sam Wilson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	we are all going forward (none of us are going back)

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this work originates from a richard siken poem.
> 
> this story contains very graphic scenes, and if you feel uncomfortable with any of the themes in the tags, i suggest being cautious when reading this. please also keep in mind that the tags are subject to change as more chapters are posted.
> 
> for each chapter, i will post a warning on what could be triggering for certain readers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: blood, gore, vomiting (mild).

“Cause I’m with you...” 

The man beneath him says this with conviction, punctuating each word and maintaining a sense of eye contact that – even despite the swollen eye and unnerving gash at the top of his cheekbone – has The Asset understanding the severity of this phrase. He choked off at the end, struggling for the words to crawl up his damaged throat and utter out as a part of his garbled speech all while The Asset keeps its metal arm raised. Its other arm grips the white star stitched at the center of the man’s chest, keeping him in place; yet a part of it doesn’t imagine the man will try to escape, even without its heavy weight on top of him. 

“...‘til the end of the line.” 

The man struggles to get the rest of the phrase out, his head slightly bobbing in finality and his eyes remaining locked above him. The Asset’s raised arm is still wining, a metallic _whirling_ as it recalibrates from the damage its sustained. It’s nothing in comparison to the blinding, white hot pain licking its flesh arm ( _dislocated shoulder – probable swelling and bruising – should be repaired promptly or damage could become irreversible with enhanced healing_ ) or the ache from the Helicarrier coming down on it ( _fractured ribs – probable bruising – should heal with time_ ). However, none of that equates to the man’s harm. 

The Asset catalogues the damage ( _two gunshot wounds to the abdomen – stab wound to the shoulder – contusions and lacerations on the face – probable concussion – should seek medical attention immediately or damage may lead to permanent inoperability_ ) and begins to wonder how this man has remained conscious. It then looks at his face – the blues of his eyes that match the Potomac below them, the thick brows and long lashes covered in dust from the falling debris, the slight crook to his nose that was not a result of The Asset’s insistent striking – and it almost thinks it recognizes... 

Phantom pains of electricity surge through its head ( _the man on the bridge..._ ), and the Helicarrier continues to fall apart around them. ( _...who was he?)_ The man is wrenched from its grasp, and The Asset manages to find purchase on a warped beam of metal. ( _You met him earlier this week on another assignment._ ) It watches as the man plummets ( _I knew him_.), the angry waves engulfing him when he reaches the bottom. ( _Your work has been a gift to mankind. You’ve shaped the century, and I’m asking you to do it one more time._ ) The metal arm grinds in its ear ( _But I knew him_.), and it notices that its jaw has locked _(Wipe him_.), the teeth in its mouth making the same sound. 

_I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal._

That voice... it doesn’t belong to the drowning man, but it sounds familiar all the same. The accent feels _warm_ , and The Asset never knew the way someone spoke to bring such an all-encompassing emotion, but it feels comforting, nonetheless. It smells damp, like a brief rain shower had passed through and the earth was rejuvenated by it, finally awaking from days of the stark dryness that withered the soil. It smells dirty, too, a miserable mixture of garbage and sewage. There’s a faint bustling – the background noise of a street that never fully sleeps – made-up of inaudible chatter, honking cars, and slamming doors. The Asset almost hears an exasperated sigh, and it all feels so familiar... like _home_. 

The Asset lets go. 

The sensation of falling is undoubtedly sickening – the rustling of the wind adding to the ringing in its ears while its stomach feels like it’s traveled up to its throat – but it feels _familiar_ too. A chill runs down its spine, and all its mind supplies it with is one thought: _Thank God it’s me and not you._

The water is freezing, instantly numbing the throbbing of its arm and head, and the saltwater burns as The Asset opens its eyes. Thankfully, it’s easy to locate the man – his hair haloing around his head in tufts of blond, flowing along with the currents. The Asset is careful with its right arm, relying on the left to maneuver it through the darkening water to grab hold of the man, but once secured, it has no choice but to use the broken arm. It tightens the grip on the man with the metal one by looping its fingers in the buckles on his chest and begins kicking upward. It grits its teeth, the pain taunting along the edge of unbearable, and continues hauling the man to the surface. 

When they emerge, The Asset gasps out the breath it had been holding in – it can’t remember the last time it had held its breath for a long period of time, and it worries about the other man. After quickly checking his pulse, its worry switches into wonder at how the man’s breath hasn’t even stuttered. He is unconscious, though. 

Swimming to shore is even more painful, but once The Asset can steady itself on its feet, it resorts to dragging the man through the water with its left arm. The flesh one is held against its chest, protectively – The Asset makes a note to pop it back in place once the man is safe ( _grab the wrist of the injured arm – quickly pull arm forward and straight in front – place arm in sling_ ). When The Asset’s boots reach the dry sand, it takes a few more steps before gently putting the man down. It checks for a pulse one last time, kneeling beside him with its hands cradling his wrist, and then carefully watches his chest rise and fall. 

Satisfied, The Asset tends to its arm, tightly grabbing its wrist and yanking it forward to pull the ball back into the shoulder’s socket. It has taught itself to not show weakness, so when its vision goes spotty with the pain of handling its arm in such a manner, the only sound that emits past its lips is a choked whimper. It then tears off the bottom of its tact pants to create a makeshift sling to secure its arm in. It still throbs, but the blatant pain has eased considerably, and with it gone, The Asset is forced to focus on the thoughts swirling through its head. 

_Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line._

Church bells ring in the distance, and The Asset is no longer staring out at the Helicarriers as they continue to ravage the waters of the Potomac, but instead finds itself dragging its body up a set of stairs. It’s following someone – a man, with a slim frame and a familiar set to his shoulders that would appear menacing on anyone else but is endearing on him. The two stop at an apartment door, and the man struggles to search for something in his pockets. ( _Check for the spare._ ) The Asset instinctively nudges a loose brick on the ground. Under it is a key, and as it hands the item over, it realizes that its lips are moving and that the two are speaking to one another. 

“Come on,” it says as the man fumbles with the key. His eyes are trained on the floor, staring down at the metal in his hands as his bangs fall forward onto his forehead. The Asset fights the urge to brush them away. 

“Thank you, Buck,” the man starts, his eyes raising so that they are looking directly into The Asset’s. ( _Buck?_ ) “But I can get by on my own.” 

“The thing is,” The Asset catches itself saying, shaking its head, “you don’t have to.” Its hand lands on the man’s shoulder, squeezing, but not in a way so that it appears threatening. No, this is a form of comfort, a way to help the man not feel so alone anymore, all through touch. It’s a foreign concept _–_ not using its hands to tear something apart, but instead to put something back together _–_ and it can’t help but feel the significance to this touch. “I’m with you…” 

The Asset’s surroundings change, the muffled streets shifting to the loud ambiance of a bar, and the fresh air turning thick with sweat and an uncomfortable heat. Its hand is still clasping a shoulder, but this one is thicker and doesn’t feel like it could shatter under its grasp. This time also doesn’t feel as significant as the last – it’s a friendly gesture, expressing a sense of camaraderie, and is not nearly as intimate. All it seems to be is a slight clap on the shoulder. 

“I’m suggestin’ you slow down on that whiskey, Dum Dum,” its voice rings in its ears, “we’ve got a meeting at oh-seven-hundred.” 

“Aye aye, Sarge,” the man ( _Dum Dum – Corporal Dugan – not a threat_ ) sarcastically replies, swigging back another mouthful of amber liquid. 

Something seems slightly off with him, and that’s when The Asset notices the exposed hair on his head, the ginger strands falling limp against his scalp. ( _No bowler hat – not a combat situation – you’re safe here._ ) The Asset’s hand has already left his shoulder as it gracefully falls into the empty chair beside him, its legs spreading in a relaxed manner and creating a posture that tries desperately to hide its rigidness. ( _Goddammit, relax – you’re safe._ )

Dum Dum turns to face it, his eyes tracing the tense lines of its form. “You sure you wanna do this? Words gettin’ around that Colonel Phillips offered you leave.” 

The Asset hesitates. ( _You’ve been through hell, kid – honorable discharge – I’ve already got all the paperwork ready – you’re the best damn shot I’ve ever had the pleasure of workin’ with – you’ll never hafta see a battlefield again_.) It instinctively knows that it had declined the offer, so its lips spread out into a smirk. “Nah, if I leave, whose gonna make sure you yucks don’t get yourselves killed?” It laughs as it says this, earning the same response from Dum Dum as he pushes away his now empty glass, shaking his head. 

The Asset’s eyes glance above the ginger’s hair, landing on a familiar frame; however, it’s different now – broader and more muscular, filling out the man’s uniform nicely. Despite this, his shoulders still have that similar set to them, but at this size, it almost _does_ make the man appear threatening. The overwhelmed expression on his face juxtaposes to this, though, like he just can’t quite believe where he’s found himself. 

_I wish you’d have just stayed the hell home_ , The Asset’s mind supplies, watching the blond grow flustered over a woman leaning in close to him, a shy smile spread across her dark lips. She’s pretty, all slight curves and loose curls brushing the tips of her shoulders, but it can tell that the man is growing uncomfortable with her obvious advances. _At least then I could’ve come home to you, and this nightmare would be over_ , its inner monologue continues just as the man becomes subjected to an illicit kiss on the cheek. A strange feeling consumes The Asset’s stomach. 

“Earth to Barnes,” Dum Dum’s voice pulls its attention away, but only for enough time to see the humorous turn of his lips. ( _Barnes?_ ) 

“Yeah, sorry, I–” The Asset’s line of sight finds itself back on the other man just as the two make eye contact, and the crease between the other’s eyebrows disappears, almost as if he’s relieved. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back, I just gotta…” 

“…are you fuckin’ insane?” 

The scene shifts again, this time leaving The Asset in an eroded barn on its knees with its hands pressing down on hard muscle. The dew-damp hay pokes through the fabric of its uniform, both wetting the material and itching the skin under it, but that’s not what its mind is focused on. There’s a hammering in its chest, accompanied by a shortness of breath that can only be described as full-fledged panic. The tips of its fingers are shaky, and there’s just so much _blood_ , sticky on its fingers and the material of the man’s uniform below it. 

“I had it under control–” 

“‘Under control’ my ass,” The Asset bites back. It assesses the damage ( _gunshot wound to the lower abdomen – clammy and pale skin – severe blood loss_ ) and continues lecturing the blond. “You can’t just raid an enemy base _alone_ , serum or not, and it doesn’t help that you carried a giant, American-shaped target on your goddamn back. Have you ever heard of subtlety?” 

The man sends him a threatening look, but The Asset is practically immune to them by this point, completely ignoring him. “I’m _Captain America –_ the shield comes with the title.” 

It huffs out a breath. “Well, until you learn how to properly use it, maybe try _planning ahead_ instead of spontaneously taking on a whole lot of Nazis.” The bleeding has already begun to subside, but The Asset keeps its hands on the man’s abdomen, just to be sure. Its mind wanders to other times, where something of this sort would do him in _–_ bandaging up bloody knuckles, assessing swollen cheeks, resetting fingers and then splinting them. ( _Quit mother-henning me, would’ya? I’m not made of glass._ ) “You’re one lucky sonovabitch that you’re pumped full of that miracle drug.” 

“Christ, I’m _sorry_ ,” the man sounds exasperated, but the edge of pain in his voice seems to have lessened, “how many times do I gotta say it?” 

“As many as I damn well please,” The Asset’s eyes pull away from the wound, focusing instead on the man’s face to find an earnest expression. His eyes are slightly glassy, but it assumes that’s due to the slowly healing state of his wounded gut, and his lips are spread out in an almost dopey grin. “Or at least until I can get it through your thick skull that this isn’t like those back-alley fights.” 

The smile changes to a grimace. “I _know_ ,” he complains, throwing his head back. 

“Do you? Mrs. Rogers must be rolling in her grave,” The Asset feels itself release a self-deprecating chuckle as it adjusts its hands on the man’s abdomen, “I can practically hear her lecturing me on keepin’ an eye on you.” 

The man closes his hand around one of its wrists, and The Asset drags its eyes back up to his. “Bucky, I’m _fine._ ” 

_But you’re not – none of this is fuckin’ fine_ , The Asset’s mind rings, _you should be home, miles away from this fight, sitting on our sofa with a sketchbook on your lap. You weren’t meant to be here – hell, I wasn’t even supposed to be here, but fate had different plans for me._ It doesn’t know exactly what this means, but there is a sinking feeling in its stomach, and it is almost happy that it is blissfully unaware. _Fuck, you were lucky, don’t you see that? You would have never had to step foot on a battlefield, yet you had to be the self-righteous asshole that you are and get yourself dragged into this mess. And you were experimented on – voluntarily! Mrs. Rogers really would be disappointed in me, and she has every right–_

“Hey,” the soft voice pulls The Asset from the words swarming through its head _–_ it wouldn’t necessarily call them thoughts, defining them more as an intrusion into someone else’s psyche. Its eyes had unfocused on its hands again and it now notices the blood caked under its nails, adding to the dirt and grim that always seems to be there. “I’m okay, you’re okay...everything’s okay now,” the man assures The Asset, brushing his thumb along the inside of its wrist. 

The two make eye contact again, but this time, the blond grabs purchase on The Asset’s collar, pulling it down so that their lips meet. It’s not surprised by the movement _–_ the man’s mouth is warm against its, slightly chapped from the frigid temperature and slick with spit, as if he had been running his tongue along it to relieve the dryness _–_ and it all feels _familiar_ , like they had done this countless times before. Their mouths slot together like a puzzle, moving at a rhythm that is both slow and haste, trying to drag it out for as long as they think they can. It ends shortly after it began, only lasting a few seconds, but it still takes The Asset’s breath away. 

It quickly surveys the area, making sure that no one else had seen them. ( _Dum Dum and Falsworth are inspecting the perimeter for hostiles – Dernier and Morita are jimmying the truck behind the barn – Gabe is still at the base after taking a harsh hit to the head._ ) This also explains why The Asset is assisting the man with his injury, since their team’s medic isn’t present _–_ they also probably hoped it would be able to talk some sense into the man.

“It’s okay, no one’s around,” the blond says below him, a small, reassuring smile making its way across his face.

The Asset sighs. “You scared the hell outta me, Stevie.”

_Stevie._

Another surge of electricity crackles in The Asset’s head, and the scene around it disappears like before, switching from the barn back to the bar for a split second, then to the apartment door for another. It keeps changing, as if someone were flipping the channels on a television in search of something interesting to watch, but not deciding on anything. The Asset opens its eyes to see a deteriorating ceiling, the feel of cool metal against its back and the scent of death lingering in the air. _God, please just kill me. I can’t take it anymore – it hurts so much._ It chokes on a sob, squeezing its eyes shut. It feels like its on fire, burning from the inside out as if its blood was boiling in its veins. _Please have mercy on my soul. Everything hurts. I can’t make it stop – make it stop – please stop!_

It finds itself at a dance hall next, sweaty and relaxed, effortlessly gliding along the linoleum floor. Its left hand is around a slim waist and _why is it made of flesh and not the metal that it remembers it always being_ before it blinks to see a bright blue light, its body going numb as a coldness takes over. The light dims to focus on the blond man again, this time wiping blood from the side of his mouth and he looks so small and vulnerable that The Asset just wants to hold him and never let go. _Sometimes I think you like getting punched._ Before the man can respond, The Asset is staring at the same man, only much larger. His ( _Steve’s, his name is Steve; I called him Stevie_ )face looks distressed, almost as if he’s begging it to listen to him. _Please don’t make me do this._ There’s a pause before the circular shield in his arms comes hurling at The Asset, and just as it makes contact with its metal arm, the scene changes again.

The air is freezing, leaking through the thick layers of its uniform, and its heart is drumming faster than it ever remembers it beating. _Bucky!_ Its fingers are frozen, grasping onto a metal bar as its legs dangle above the edge. ( _You should have listened to Morita about bringing gloves._ ) The wind rushes in its ears, along with the insistent chugging from the train its hanging on from, but a shout breaks through the deafening noise. _Hang on!_ The Asset’s eyes follow the voice, finding its source in the man ( _Steve, dammit_ )as he attempts to press himself against the outside of the train too. _Grab my hand!_ Steve reaches for it, outstretching his arm toward The Asset, and just as it musters up the courage to do the same, the metal bar breaks.

It falls.

The Asset feels its body plummeting to the ground, its ears picking up on someone screaming over the roaring of the wind. It soon realizes that the sound is coming from its own lips, tearing up its throat and leaving it raw, and its eyes are screwed shut to keep out the frigid air, burning as tears leak from the corners. The sensation of falling continues as The Asset’s mind utters one thought again, this time with context: _Thank God it’s me and not you_.

In dreams, there’s always that moment before the bad thing happens – right before the host that one’s subconscious associates being itself suffers from the pain of whatever this nightmare entails – where they wake up. Their consciousness returns to their body, usually harshly wrenched from the depths of their mind with sweated brows and heavy breaths, because their body outside of this dream has never experienced such a sensation; therefore, it would never be able to replicate it. The swooping feeling in The Asset’s gut as it falls is not entirely new – its mind blinks to images of a creaky rollercoaster, white-knuckled hands gripping a metal bar as the wind rushes through its hair ( _Are you seriously gonna make me ride that? I’ll throw up._ ) – and when it opens its eyes, it expects to be greeted with the comfort of a wrinkled sheet and four walls surrounding it.

This isn’t a dream, though.

It reaches the forest floor, its left side taking the brunt of the fall, and the air is wrenched from its lungs. There’s a ringing in its ears as it rolls to its back, almost resembling the sound of a helicopter, and the damp snow seeps through the back of its uniform. All it feels is pain, erupting through each limb before licking up its chest in bursts of unimaginable agony, but its not dead and _why am I still alive, I should be dead_. _God, I was supposed to die, why are you punishing me? Was it because of him? Was it because of what we did? Please, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one-hundred and forty-seven days since my last confession. Please, kill me. I don’t care if I go to Hell, just get me out of here. Please! I’m begging you! I can’t do this anymore – it’s too much, everything hurts, please just have mercy on me._

Black spots cloud its vision, and The Asset would smile if it weren’t choking on the blood in its throat, it bubbling past its lips to drip down its chin. The metallic taste is sickening and nausea rolls through its stomach, but it imagines that’s from more than just the blood. It convulses, causing its eyes to train on the left side of its body, and _no, no, no, why did I have to look?_ Bile mixes with the blood in its throat, further cutting off its airways and threatening to spill over.

The Asset’s left arm is a mangled, bloody mess – a disgusting combination of exposed bone and strings of muscle attempting to keep it together. There’s so much _blood_ , painting the snow and the chunks of flesh that have already disconnected from its body in a dark crimson. It can’t locate its fingers, or even most of the lower half of its forearm for that matter, and a sense of dread bottles up in its stomach as its eyes raise. Just as the darkness ebbs its way around its vision, The Asset’s eyes land on a severed hand, missing most of its fingers, and the sound of voices speaking in Russian break through the ringing. A hand lands on its shoulder, and everything goes black.

Its eyes open again to focus on its drying tact pants, the Helicarriers still falling apart in the Potomac with the distant groaning of metal. Drops of water fall from its hair, some rolling into its eyes and others creating dark craters in the sand, and The Asset watches those little divots form.

The phantom hand on its shoulder remains, but as its eyes shift upwards, it realizes that it is actually there. The Asset’s line of sight follows the thin arm where it meets the body of a woman – fight-mussed red hair, piercing green eyes, frowning lips – and it stifles a gasp. The electricity curls in its head again, this time revealing the same green eyes on a young girl. ( _The Red Room – handcuffs on bed frames – Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs – graduation ceremonies_.) She’s standing defiantly, her hands situated at her hips, puffing out her chest – the stance looks wrong on someone so small, and the Asset can’t help but grimace. The younger girl cocks an eyebrow as she takes a fighting stance and then lunges for him before blowing away like smoke. 

The older version takes her place. “Natalia?” It groans, its head feeling as if its going to explode, an insistent throbbing behind its eyes. She looks surprised, and The Asset instinctively knows that expression doesn’t cross her face often, that she had such a thing beaten out of her.

“Ya– Soldat,” she corrects herself, tightening her loose grip on its shoulder, but not enough to cause discomfort. She continues in Russian, “Mission Report.”

Its mind goes quiet, that blissful silence that comes after recovering from the chair, but it only lasts for a moment. “No more missions,” The Asset grinds out in the same language, its shoulders going tense, anticipating resistance. The woman simply stares at it, dumbfounded. “ _Please_ ,” it begs, showing weakness, the kind that would only come out after back-to-back wipes – the ones that would make it feel as if its brain was leaking out of its ears and its body was strung tight like that of a string on a violin. ( _Wipe him – again – again – again!_ ) It was a form of punishment, and it wasn’t until much later that The Asset learned begging only made matters worse.

“Okay,” the woman says, “no more missions.”

 _Is it really that easy? It cannot possibly be that simple,_ The Asset’s mind is whirling, another sort of ache forming in its head. _This must be a trick, another one of those attempts to get me to break conditioning. When was the last time I was wiped? How long have I been awake?_ The longest mission it remembers lasted just over a hundred and thirty-six hours, but it never remembers being this self-aware. _Why am I able to hear this voice in my head?_

_Why am I referring to myself as if I am a person?_

The woman switches her attention to her left, changing languages as well. “How is he?”

The Asset follows the direction of her eyes, taking in the sight of the man ( _Steve_ ) who is still unconscious. There is another man beside him, this one with darker skin and civilian clothes on. It assess the new threat ( _Knife in back pocket – lacerations to the face – holding most of his weight on his right side_ – _could be easily eliminated_ ), relaxing a fraction when he doesn’t appear dangerous.

“He’s still breathing, so I’d count it as a win,” he starts, his fingers pressed gently against Steve’s pulse point at his throat. “This whole thing has gone FUBAR.”

The red-head scoffs. “We’re going to have so much paperwork to do,” she adds as she turns to face The Asset again. “Think you can handle Cap? I’m gonna get him in some cuffs.”

The Asset ignores the man’s response, watching as the woman carefully removes the makeshift sling and pulls its arms in front of it. A harsh pain sears through its flesh arm, but it has healed enough to where it quickly dissipates into a dull throb, and it barely flinches as she locks them together with thick cuffs. Her face twists into a look of remorse, like she feels bad for causing it pain, and The Asset goes to warn her of the consequences of making such an expression. “Careful, little one, you’re giving too much away.”

“Sorry,” the woman apologizes, easily switching back to Russian, and steels her expression to a more neutral one. “It’s okay, though – there’s no one here to see.”

The Asset hums, not believing her, but not giving its feelings of distrust away. It follows the woman’s instruction and rises to its feet, only slightly stumbling when its vision blacks for a short moment. It then ducks its head, hiding behind the damp locks of hair that fall as it mindlessly follows after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, guys, gals, and non-binary pals!
> 
> this is my first ever post, and i’ve been sitting on this story for a while – the bare bones have been in my drafts, but i never mustered up the courage to actually work on it until now. i have so many different ideas and directions that i could take this story, and i’m super excited!
> 
> bucky has always had a special place in my heart, and i wanted to explore what could have happened if he decided to stay after the fall of project insight. i am also shamelessly fulfilling my stevebucky headcanons while refusing to acknowledge the existence of endgame.
> 
> unfortunately, i am a very busy gal (i work 30-40 hours a week, i’m a full-time college student, i recently moved out of my parents house, etc), so there is no official updating schedule. i will try to write as quickly and as often as possible; however, i want to be honest in the beginning and let everyone know that updates will be pretty sporadic.
> 
> with that, thank you so much for reading! talk to you soon. :)


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